


Lemnos

by pasiphile



Category: Torchwood
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-18
Updated: 2014-10-18
Packaged: 2018-02-21 15:37:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2473469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pasiphile/pseuds/pasiphile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Mary, Tosh adjusts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lemnos

**Author's Note:**

  * For [garrideb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/garrideb/gifts).



> Apologies for the lack of beta!  
> This turned out a lot angstier and less Mary-centric than I had expected, so I hope you still like it!

She’s never been with a woman before.

It’s such a damned porn cliché it almost makes her laugh.

Not that she’s that experienced in porn. It just, well, it had been a slow day and there’d been some kind of discussion between Suzie and Owen about women and sex, and somehow they’d thought the answer lay in lesbian porn.

And she hadn’t wanted to feel left out, so she’d watched along with them, partly intrigued, partly disgusted, watching Owen’s eyes and grin and the way he licked his lips. And then Jack had come in, and where normal bosses would’ve shouted at them for incompetency or unprofessionalism Jack had laughed and sat down and offered expert commentary -

She doesn’t want to think about Jack right now.

“You’re distracted,” Mary says, in that honey-glazed smoke-rough voice of hers.

“I don’t want to be.” Tosh shakes her head. “I don’t – just for once, let this be something about _me_. Something _I_ want.”

“Alright,” Mary says, amusement in her eyes. She puts her hand on Tosh’s cheek, thumb resting on her cheekbone. “Let’s get you distracted, then.”

And she leans in.

***

Tosh – as always – is the first on inside the Hub, the morning after they – after Mary...

After.

She shuffles to her desk, head ducked and shoulders hunched, an old habit that always crops up when she’s feeling depressed. A pointless habit, here; there’s no hiding in this cavernous wide-open space, no corners to sneak away to. Unless she goes to hide in the archives, but that would be too much like admitting defeat.

It takes fifteen minutes before Ianto silently appears out of nowhere, a steaming cup of coffee in his hand. He puts it down and she murmurs a _thanks_ , eyes still on her screen, tense and uneasy.

“I’m sorry,” Ianto says.

“What would you know about it?” she says, automatically, and then she actually _thinks_ about that.

_There isn’t an inch of me that doesn’t hurt._

Has she been selfish? Too focused on her own pain? Gwen and Owen had thrown her off that she’d almost forgotten about Ianto, and his stomach-twisting grief and the fear he’d felt when Mary had grabbed her…

Ianto gives her one of his typical awkward, sad, slightly twisted smiles. “If I can…” he starts, then trails off.

On impulse she takes his hand. It’s warm, and dry, and strangely reassuring. “Thank you,” she says, earnestly.

Another awkward smile, and then he gives her hand a squeeze and lets it go again.

She watches him go, back straight and face expressionless.

They’ve all got their scars. And it’s stupid she forgot about that.

Funny, really. You’d expect that being inside other people’s mind would make you less selfish, not more.

***

Mary’s lips are full and plump and gentle against hers and Mary’s hand is soft on Tosh’s cheek and she can’t help but shiver.

It’s not like she’s a virgin or anything, she’s been with her fair share of men. But it’s never been like this, she’s never been _wanted_ like this. Open and obvious and completely unashamed.

And yet it doesn’t feel sleazy, not like some random guy hitting on her. Mary looks at her and behind those dancing eyes there are _images –_

_\- Tosh on her back writhing on the sheets Mary’s head between her thighs and –_

_\- Mary sitting up against the headboard and Tosh in her lap and she throws her head back and –_

_\- Mary’s hand tearing at the sheets and her back arched up from the bed and –_

_-_ and Mary smiles at her, raises an eyebrow. “Any preferences?” she asks, then licks her lips.

Tosh shakes her head, mute.

***

“Yeah, well, it’s practically Torchwood standard requirement, isn’t it?” Owen says. “ _Shag an alien,_ right there with _use dangerous tech for personal purposes_ and _accidentally drug the entire north half of Cardiff_.”

Tosh ducks her head. Is this Owen’s version of kindness, showing that he doesn’t hold a grudge? Or is he still angry at her, for violating his privacy?

“I hope your alien to shag ends up slimy,” Gwen bites back. Protective. “With lots of tentacles, and – and giving you the alien equivalent of gonorrhea.”

“Been there, done that,” Owen says, with a filthy grin, leaning back with his hands behind his head. Gwen gives an exaggerated _eww_ , which only fires Owen on. He tries giving details, and Gwen starts chucking random office equipment at him, and the whole thing feels back to normal.

Tosh looks down at her desk and remembers the soft translucent silvery true form of Mary, and feels sick.

***

Mary’s touches are softer than she’s used to, but with a sharp edge every time her fingernail angles up into Tosh’s skin. It fits her, a strange mixture of hard and soft, of gentle and then something – something sharp.

Her lips meet Tosh’s again. They’re pliable, full, tasting waxy from lipstick. That’s different as well.

( _and later, she’ll wonder – how much was part of the disguise – how can even the best of image inducers produce the taste of lipstick – was it ever real)_

She doesn’t fumble, Mary. Every touch is sure, calm. She gets Tosh’s bra off at the first try, then gently nudges her onto her back, without any tangling limbs or tripping or awkward elbows at all.

“You’re good at this,” Tosh says, then winces at the awkwardness of the line.

“Had a lot of practice,” Mary replies, raising her eyebrows. She leans over Tosh, on all fours, looking a bit like a large cat pinning its prey. “Want me to show you?”

She thinks of Jack again, his swagger and his flirting and his casual confidence – it’s similar.

But this isn’t about Jack. This about _her_ , and only her.

“Yes,” Tosh says, and she hooks her hand around Mary and pulls her down.

***

Gwen is a bit harder to deal with than Ianto. Ianto is quiet sympathy and subtle little touches like a splash of chocolate in her coffee, or coming back the next morning to find her previously-messy desk rearranged, all according to her own filing system. A sort of pat on the shoulder, showing her he cares, that he wants to help. Unobtrusive.

Calling Gwen _obtrusive_ is too unkind, but nevertheless there's something about the way she approaches this, something that's very different from Ianto's unspoken care.

She corners Tosh when they're alone in the Hub, all wide compassionate eyes and soft empathizing voice, the way she’d done when she had talked about judgement, and her and Owen. The same acceptance, the same gentleness. It’s a bit startling, someone being this obvious about their feelings, this honest. Torchwood doesn’t normally have much to do with _honest_.

But Gwen’s a good person, and Tosh feels like her heart is going to burst if she doesn’t say _something_ , so she makes the effort.

“Did you love her?” Gwen asks, a bit hesitant, a bit unsure.

Tosh opens her mouth to say _no_ , then stops herself. “I don’t know,” she says, something like wonder in her voice, and Gwen’s face twists and she pulls Tosh into a hug.

“Oh, _Tosh_.” The words breathed softly in her hair, and suddenly there are tears she hadn’t even been aware of. She sobs and sniffles, Gwen stroking her hair, because…

She did love Mary. In a way.

***

Mary kisses her way down Tosh’s body like she – like she adores every inch of it. Even the small scar at her midriff, even the stretchmarks at her hips, not one spot gets skipped or ignored.

Men have gone down on her before, but… It either gave her the feeling they were performing a chore, or like a puppy was slobbering all over her, or, sometimes, like she wanted to push him away and hide underneath the sheets.

This isn’t like that.

Mary’s breath brushes the inside of Tosh’s thigh _(Did she even breathe oxygen? Was it carbon dioxide, or some other gas that made goosebumps form on Tosh’s skin?_ ) and Tosh’s skin is tingling; she feels like she’s drunk, or high. At the same time floating far away from her body and deeply sunk into it.

Mary’s eyes meet her. “Yes?” she asks, smiling. Her lipstick is smudged; faint red traces dot Tosh’s body from collarbone to thighs, like she’s bleeding. Marked.

“Yes,” Tosh says, and Mary gives a teasing nip at the inside of Tosh’s thigh and then presses her mouth between Tosh’s thighs.

***

The inside of her thigh still hurts a little.

The mark stubbornly remains, a neat press of teeth. The strange thing is that part of her, the scientist in her, is absolutely _fascinated_. Not just an image inducer, a camouflage, but actual shape-changing tech, body-snatching. It’s unique.

And then there’s another part of her that feels a bit like throwing up. She pulls open a drawer and scrabbles for a mint, to wash away the sour taste from her mouth. Her fingers close on something cylindrical instead.

Tosh stares.

She threw away all her lipstick immediately when she got home again, grabbing them all blindly and chucking in the bin with tears burning in her eyes.

It’s the taste, see. The slightly waxy slick taste against her lips and tongue… Only scent is worse than taste, thank god no one here smokes, or wears the same perfume Mary does.

The lipstick feels hard against her fingers, more like a bullet than innocent plastic. Soft pink –  Mary’s colour.

She grabs it and rushes to the toilet, where she vomits up most of her lunch. Once the heaving has stopped, she gets out of the stall to throw the lipstick in the bin. They get emptied every Wednesday; by tomorrow it’ll be gone.

She leans close to the mirror and carefully wipes away the raccoon marks around her eyes, reapplies her lipstick. It’s difficult, her hand is still trembling.

“It’s generally the ex’s possessions you’re supposed to burn, not your own,” Jack’s voice says from behind her.

“This is the ladies’ loo,” Tosh says, inanely.

Jack shrugs and waves a dismissive hand. “Ah, labels. This century needs to loosen up a bit.”

She grits her teeth and turns to face him. He’s smiling, arms crossed, looking relaxed. But she still remembers his face, his cold hostile smile when he walked in on Mary. The fake charm, the humourless joking.

And she remembers him, sitting across her at a metal table when she first met him, the first real person she’d seen in – weeks? Months?

Jack is ruthless. This isn’t anything new, and still it shocked her, when he –

When he killed Mary.

“Do you resent me for it?” he asks, growing serious.

She looks back at the sink, and the mirror above it. Her eyes still look a bit red, but the telltale mascara trails have disappeared.

She thinks of Suzie, her body still and cold as Tosh helped Ianto pack her in, Jack watching with his face almost as still and cold as Suzie’s. And she thinks of Ianto’s girlfriend, how Tosh had to de-assemble the electronic bits afterwards from her body, wondering which gunshots wounds came from her gun and which from Jack’s, Owen’s, Gwen’s. She thinks of all the bodies she’s had to study over the years. The threats, neutralised.

“I understand why you did it,” she says. Her voice sounds thick, hoarse, betraying what her face doesn’t show.

“That’s not what I asked,” Jack says, gently, and this time it isn’t his cruelty she thinks of, but the way he wiped away her tears after she broke the pendant.

“I don’t know,” she says. _Don’t know much these days, do you_? a cruel voice inside her sneers.

“Okay,” Jack says, still gentle. “Will you let me know if that changes?”

She lifts her chin, meets his eyes. “I’m fine, Jack.”

“You’re not.” He smiles, tired and sad. “But that’s okay. Go to work, Tosh.”

She nods and moves. When she brushes past him, he squeezes her shoulder.

He’s right, she’s not fine. She feels like she’ll never be really _fine_ again.

***

She’s still shaking from her orgasm when she pulls Mary up, pushing and tugging until she’s on her back and Tosh is straddling her. _Now_ , she thinks, before she loses her nerve.

This is even more unfamiliar than before: the heavy warm weight of Mary’s breasts, the way she shivers and moans at Tosh’s hesitant touch. The feeling of a hard nipple in her mouth, strange but not _that_ strange, her belly warming in empathy, as if her own body is copying Mary’s responses.

She smooths her hand over Mary’s body, the dip of her waist and flaring hips, soft thighs and wiry hair. She listens to Mary’s whispered instructions _– yes, there; lower; careful, gentle there; yesss_ – and follows them, gladly. Her hand goes further down and Mary’s eyes snap open, her mouth a perfect little o. It’s slick against Tosh’s fingers, again familiar-but-not, but Mary’s face, and Mary’s movement and Mary’s noises all take away any lingering insecurity.

Mary grabs the sheets – _just like in her imagination_ , Tosh thinks, amazes, wild – and she pushes up against Tosh, Tosh’s hand awkwardly trapped between them but she does her best, keeps moving, until Mary freezes to a shuddering halt, then collapses, shaking and panting.

“Was that good?” Tosh asks, suddenly a little insecure.

Mary roughly grabs Tosh’s hair and pulls her close, presses an aggressive probing kiss into her mouth and then pulls her to her chest, hand still in her hair. “Yeah,” she says, breathlessly. “Yeah, that was… good.”

Tosh curls her hand on Mary’s heaving stomach, and smiles.

***

The fragments of the pendant are still in storage, hidden away in a drawer in the archives.

She calls them up, knowing all the while that Ianto will see her ID number and know she’s accessed them, and that he’ll tell Jack – he, like she now, can’t afford any mistakes anymore.

She doesn’t cry, this time. She looks down at the fragments, lightly touches her fingers to it – half expecting the familiar spark and shock of telepathy, but of course there’s nothing.

“I did love you, you know,” Tosh says, softly. “I really think I did.”

And then she closes the drawer.

***

Tosh is on her back, leaning up on her elbows. Mary’s hand is idly tracing her spine, up and down, teasing feathery touches.

She’s flushed. She’s happy. She’s lost the insecurity that made her tremble earlier, lost the lingering fear and insecurity.

She holds up the pendant, tilts her head. Mary kisses her shoulder.

“Can I try something?” Tosh asks.

“Course you can.”

She puts the pendant on, and – yes, there, that same feeling of sharpening as when she puts on her glasses. And there are Mary’s thoughts, sex-sated and heavy and warm.

Tosh sighs. She rolls onto her side and takes Mary’s neck, pulls her in for a kiss. She can feel it, like before, the soft slippery slide of Mary’s full lips against her, the slight touch of tongue against teeth – and, at the same time, there are Mary’s thoughts, Mary’s feelings, Tosh’s lips opening for her tongue and her teeth tugging gently at Mary’s lower lip, and –

Tosh experimentally twines her legs with Mary’s, then pushes her thigh up. Mary gasps, jolts, and Tosh’s breath hitches as well, simultaneously, the shock of pleasure skipping easily across the pendant into her own mind.

She closes her eyes, dizzy, like before only a thousand times worse. “God,” she says, softly.

“You’re amazing,” Mary says, laughter in her voice.

***

It’s only later that guilt really kicks in.

 

 


End file.
